


linger.

by unorthodoxCreativity



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorthodoxCreativity/pseuds/unorthodoxCreativity
Summary: The newest Robin disobeys Batman and ventures into Crime Alley on his own in order to attempt a productive conversation with his predecessor. Things go sideways when Poison Ivy gets involved, and Jay shows sides of himself that Tim had feared had died with him in Ethiopia.





	linger.

**Author's Note:**

> It's my birthday today. I think I got something backwards, giving a gift instead of receiving them. In any case, I hope everyone enjoys my first foray into the land of Batman fanfic.

The perfume of your body dulls my sense.   
I want nor wine nor weed; your breath alone   
Suffices. In this moment rare and tense   
I worship at your breast. The flower is blown,   
The saffron petals tempt my amorous mouth,   
The yellow heart is radiant now with dew   
Soft-scented, redolent of my loved South;   
O flower of love! I give myself to you.   
Uncovered on your couch of figured green,   
Here let us linger indivisible.   
The portals of your sanctuary unseen   
Receive my offering, yielding unto me.   
Oh, with our love the night is warm and deep!   
The air is sweet, my flower, and sweet the flute   
Whose music lulls our burning brain to sleep,  
While we lie loving, passionate and mute.

_ — Flower of Love, Claude McKay _

 

 

Tim shouldn’t have gone out alone. He knows this, logically, but it seemed like an unimportant detail during his initial planning. Batman and Nightwing were focused on a small-scale Arkham breakout (thankfully the worst didn’t make it out – just a few two-bit villains) which presented the perfect opportunity.

Bruce would have never let him seek out Jason on his own, or at all, especially not so close to the Red Hood’s last attempt on Tim’s life, but he knew they both needed answers, to go to blows and work out everything that stands between them, to come to a mutual understanding of some kind, and it would have been cruel to withhold that from a boy as broken as Jason Todd.

And now, in his current predicament, Tim is realizing Batman was right. Not at all for the right reasons, but the end result is the same: he’s fucked. He feels at least some vindication that he’s not being threatened by the Red Hood, but it’s hard to hold onto when there’s so much uncertainty at what’s going to happen to him.

Poison Ivy appears in his peripheral vision again, on her second rotation stalking around where she’s tied him in complicated knots to hang from the ceiling beams of the warehouse they’re in. Her expression is still assessing, considering the technical work of the hemp rope. It’s rough, biting into his flesh where he’s not covered by costume, rubbing holes in his Robin tights.

Tim had never actually fought Ivy before; she’d always been in Arkham as long as he’d held the Robin mantle. He’s heard stories, of course, but Gotham Nightlife has a tendency to exaggerate, and this woman doesn’t _seem_  out for his blood. He figures Batman would have mentioned her as part of the escapees if she had been that much of a threat. And yet, his instincts are tight with panic, his fight or flight response going haywire at his inability to move from the way she’s tied him up. Something in her eyes flickers at his struggling, and unease twists in his stomach.

“You boys,” she says finally, the first words she’s said since he came to after she’d knocked him out from behind, and that had only been to chide him on poor training. A long-fingernailed hand trails along his thigh petal-light and he shivers. “Is being emotionally stunted a requirement for his birds, or is that something he teaches you?”

“…What?” Tim tries to look at her, but he can only turn his head so far before the rope scrapes the tender skin of his neck. She’s behind him, grabbing his knees and forcing his legs apart. He bites down a yelp and tries not to tremble from the indignity.

“It’s very clear why you’re in this particular neighborhood tonight,” she goes on, adding some additional lengths of rope to her contraption so his legs can’t close again. He’s never felt so exposed in his life.

“There was a breakout. You know that, obviously,” Tim says, focusing on a blemish in the concrete wall in front of him instead of the prickling of his personal bubble being so thoroughly violated.

Ivy swats his inner thigh, not too hard, but he jumps anyway. “Liar. This is _his_ territory.” She doesn’t have to say the name. They both know who she’s talking about.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tim says to the discolored concrete.

Ivy tuts and walks back around to his face, grabbing his chin to force him to look at her. “There would be so much less collateral damage if you lot would just talk to each other. Hood’s last explosion took out an entire exotic nursery.”

Tim does his best to yank his chin back out of her hand. “That’s what I was _going_  to do, before you _kidnapped me!_ ” If his hands weren’t tied behind his back, wrists-to-ankles like a pig destined for a cartoon feast, he would have lashed out. Instead, he swings gently, ineffectual. He snarls as he butts back into her hand, held up to caress him.

“You bats have a version of talking that involves way too many fists.” And it’s odd and suddenly painful, the way her tone reminds him of his mother’s when she’d chastise him for ignoring his human needs. “I’m just here to facilitate more… _satisfying_  conversation.”

A cold dread settles over the pins and needles in his straining muscles where the rope is just a little too tight. “What does that mean?”

She pats his face, sending a plume of pinkish-brown dust into his eyes and throat. He coughs, tears streaking down his face, as she saunters away. He sucked in way too much of the dust, and his lungs are screaming with it, his tongue and throat coated with the sickly-sweet residue.

“You’ll see,” she says. “Have fun.” She smirks and she’s out of his line of vision, a watery blur of green. He continues coughing, heaving, spasms eventually subsiding. Even still, he breathes heavy, labored in a way that feels warm, too warm.

It occurs to him, as the fear unknots and coils into something hot and _greedy_ , what she’s done to him.

He’s been pollinated.  

And there’s not a goddamn thing he can do about it.

 

✧･:* ❀ *:･✧

 

Jason is at the corner of Fifth and Prospect bashing in a pimp’s face when he gets the tip off.

Something or someone has tripped the alarm in one of his storage warehouses, and he is beyond pissed when he realizes it’s the C4. He has other precautions, keeps the explosives locked up tighter than Blackgate, but the sheer _nerve_  of someone to even attempt to get at his stash is enough to make his vision spark green at the edges. He growls some threat or another to the pimp and lets him drop, barely present enough to properly appreciate the way his skull cracks against the sidewalk. He’s already shooting his grapple line toward the nearest roofline and high-tailing it out of there, more pressing bogies on his mind than an abusive fuckwad he’s already beaten half-dead.

The warehouse door is ajar when he reaches it, and he pulls his gun before he’s fully aware of what he’s seeing. He’s pretty sure there aren’t any gangs stupid enough to try and meddle with his shit like this, especially not in such a sloppy way, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t some jackasses nearby who didn’t realize he had a silent alarm installed in all of his buildings. Knees shifting to absorb the sound of his footfalls, he glides into the warehouse like a ghost, breath carefully regulated so as not to make a sound.

Immediately, he can hear heavy breathing in an area behind some of the empty crates he has strategically placed around for cover in the event of a firefight. The guy sounds like he’s in serious pain, maybe shot, but Jason can’t hear anyone else around. There aren’t any booby traps in that particular corner, either, so it’s probably not his doing. He creeps around the wall of crates carefully, clicking off his safety and trigger-finger poised to fire. One can never be too careful.

What he finds on the other side is not a two-bit thug with a bullet in his side. In fact, it’s so far from what he was expecting that he can’t help the incredulous, “What the fuck?” that slips out as he lowers his firearm. 

Suspended from the ceiling in some kind of kinky rope setup is Tim Fucking Drake. Tim makes eye contact with Jason – someone took his domino – and moans. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes don’t even look blue anymore, just a deep, heady black. Jason takes a step back instinctively.

“What the fuck?” he says again, a little louder.

“Poison Ivy,” Tim manages, wriggling a little before biting his lip and moaning again. His eyes clench shut and Jason recognizes the breathing exercise he’s doing. It doesn’t seem to help much. “Pollen.” 

Jason turns the safety back on and holsters his gun, but he’s not discounting this being some kind of trap. “Why?”

Tim whines as Jason steps closer, struggling to lean close to him. “Please,” he rasps. 

Instead of dignifying Tim with an answer, Jason pulls the knife from his boot and starts sawing through ropes. This close, he can see the sweat pooling on Tim’s skin, the slick sticking his tights to his inner thighs. It looks like he’s been here for hours and has definitely already come in his jock at least once, but there’s no way – the alarm only just went off. A new, more potent strain, maybe? 

He brushes against Tim to reach up for the central weight-bearing rope and the restrained Robin makes a noise that Jason had been pretty damn sure was only ever faked in porn, something high pitched and needy that makes something sickly twist deep in his gut. What the fuck was Ivy thinking, leaving him this to find? 

Tim lands on the floor when the rope finally snaps, a three-foot fall onto concrete that probably hurt like a bitch if the yelp that comes out of him is any indication. Jason tries not to dwell on the height Tim was hanging at, exactly waist-high, legs forced open like that. Green crackles at the edges of his vision again. He’s not just upset that he’s left to clean up this mess now, he’s offended and ENRAGED at what Poison Ivy apparently thinks of him, thinks he’d do to another person just because he’s there and available and unable to say no.

He used to think she was pretty decent, but apparently fucking not.

“Jason,” Tim whines from the floor. Now that he has a surface to work against, he’s grinding down like a dog in heat, breath harsh through his nose. “ _Jason_.”

“Cut that shit out,” he growls, toeing Tim’s side with his boot in a gentle kick that’s more of a nudge than anything else. “I’m cutting the rest of the ropes and you better not fucking try anything, got it?”

“Yessir,” Tim breathes against the concrete floor his face is pressed against.  

His gut writhes again and he regulates his breathing carefully to avoid throwing up as he crouches beside the drugged-up boy and makes quick work of cutting the rest of the rope away from his body. Tim is quiet outside of his heavy panting and the little whines that escape like gasps whenever Jason touches him. But evidently, Bruce’s training is still at work, because Tim lies completely still otherwise, watching him carefully out of one eye.

“Can you stand?” Jason asks him roughly when the rope is in short, tattered lengths under the boy. He stands himself to put a little bit of distance between them. The smell of Tim’s sweat and cum is a steady invasive force, clouding his head with muggy discomfort.

There’s got to be some pollen left in the air, somehow getting past the filter in his helmet. He stares, feeling sluggish, as Tim wets his lips and then uncurls, rolling up onto his hands and knees. Jason looks away until he hears Tim stand. He says to a blemish on the far wall, “I don’t know what strain she’s got you on, but I’ve got some antidote at one of my safe houses. That okay?”

“Yeah,” comes the shaky reply, a little too close to him for comfort. “How’re we getting there?”

“Fuck.” Jason hadn’t thought that far ahead; all he has is his grapple gun. It’s not TOO far, none of his safe houses are, but he doesn’t want to walk Tim through even a few blocks of the Alley in this state at night. “How’s your grip right now?”

“Um?” Tim reaches out and grabs Jason’s arm, testing – Jason nearly leaps out of his skin at the unexpected contact, which is tight and steady despite the slight trembling of Tim’s muscles. “Good, I think.”

“We’re gonna have to grapple a few blocks. You can hold onto me that long?”

“Yeah,” Tim breathes. He hasn’t let go of Jason’s arm.

Jason pulls away roughly. “Let’s go.”

 

✧･:* ❀ *:･✧

 

Tim’s breath is ragged when they finally land on the balcony of his safehouse. Jason keeps a steadying hand on him while he disengages the alarms and opens the window, and the contact seers at his skin. The throb between his legs is bordering on painful, his erection trapped in the confines of his cup. 

Even with the helmet and all the armor in the way, Tim can smell Jason’s sweat, imagine how the hair at his nape curls when it’s wet. He swallows and worries his lip between his teeth, trying to distract himself with an edge of pain, but that only makes it worse. Without warning, he’s shoved through the window with strong, heavy hands.  

The apartment has linoleum flooring made to look like wood panels. It’s blessedly cool against his flushed skin, so he curls up there, ears tuned to the stomp and shuffle of Jason following him through the window and rooting through cabinets. 

“Found something, might help.” Jason’s voice is unobstructed; Tim looks up and finds himself caught in his bare gaze. The domino under his helmet is gone, too, and Tim wonders somewhere deep in his mind if he lost time somewhere along the line. 

He tries talking, but all that comes out is a raspy moan. His skin prickles and feels tight, too hot, constricted by too much fabric. Jason’s eyes are so blue, ringed with the slightest line of brilliant green. Jason crouches beside him, lifts his head up to cradle in his lap and presses something to his mouth. A vial of some sort, he’s vaguely aware, but every nerve sings with the awareness of the boy holding him  – no, the MAN, Tim has never been more aware of their size difference and if he weren’t already sprawled out on the floor his knees might have given out at that thought. He drinks, finding the chalky-sweet liquid less repulsive than he ought to, and tries to chase those gorgeous fingers with his mouth when Jason pulls the empty glass away.

“You should take a shower.” His head is on the floor again, quite suddenly, and he wants to weep with grief from the loss of Jason’s lap, hands, those _fingers_. “You’ll feel better.”

Tim sincerely doubts it, but he forces himself to find the focus energy to stand back up on wobbly feet and stagger his way into the apartment in search of the bathroom. He doesn’t bother to shut the door when he finds it, fumbling with the fabric of his costume in his hurry to get it off. He finds a note tucked between his belt and his lower stomach, stuck to the fabric with his sweat.

His pulse thuds through every vein in his body, even a few minutes after taking what he hopes was the antidote. Carefully, so as not to tear the paper, he peels it from his abdomen; the ink is running, but it’s still legible: _Hood - New strain, it’ll take a couple rounds to get it out of his system. Have fun working out your problems! - Ivy (p.s. It’ll take at least a week to burn off if you ignore him and I imagine that would be uncomfortable. I trust you’ll do the right thing <3)_

Tim isn’t sure whether he hates her or loves her; right now, it’s a little hard to tell the difference. There’s now a logical reason for his keen want to be bent over a hard surface and _taken_ , more than any other of his controlled training exposures to the pollens Batman had samples of in the Cave. He files away that information somewhere to think about later. Right now, he tries very hard to finish taking off his clothing carefully, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. The note is set on the counter. His costume is a mess on the floor, his skin prickling at the cold air. His cock is so, so heavy between his legs, finally free of the sticky cup.

He doesn’t touch himself, even though he desperately wants to. He knows it won’t do him any good.

He steps into the shower and turns it on warm. 

 

✧･:* ❀ *:･✧

 

Jason continues digging in his kitchen cabinets long after he hears the sound of the shower turn on; the vial he forced down Tim’s throat was technically an Ivy antidote, but it was at least a year old, and there’s no way it was the right one. He swears he has something else in here, something to at least take the edge off while it burns out of the pretender-Robin’s system.

He remembers the first time he was hit with something like this. He still wore those embarrassing little booty shorts, had whimpered and begged when Bruce had found him left behind, too shaky to stand. He’d said a lot of things he wishes he hadn’t, pieces of himself he had never meant to share with the older man, but the drugged desperation had pulled them out of him like broken teeth. All those goddamn daddy issues, just wanting to be good enough, a _good boy_ …

Fuck. At least Tim seems to have a better handle on himself than Jason did at that age. And isn’t that a kick in the pants, he’s actually happy for that at the moment. He hates how much better Tim is at being Robin than him, but right now, it’s a blessing. He needs to get his head on straight.

When the boy had tried to suck his fingers into his mouth… It’s all the pollen, he knows that. But it twists like a batarang in the kidney how shitty that feels, to know that’s the closest anyone has come to  _wanting_  him like that, at least since he was out on the streets. And it was desire for _him_ , there was definite recognition in Tim’s eyes, and despite everything he still strained for him and made that sad noise of disappointment when Jason dropped him.

He hates that fucking wannabe bird. He should just find the extra serum, leave it out for him on the goddamn counter, and leave him to figure out the rest of his evening. He’s in a safe place, he can sweat it out alone until he remembers how to call Batsy to come pick him up.

Except that he can’t find the fucking serum. This isn’t a safe house he normally uses, but he was pretty sure he remembered to drop some off at each house when he got his hands on it, just in case. The only things he keeps readily stocked at his houses in the city are meds, ammo, and alcohol. 

At least he’s got plenty of the latter; maybe he can just get the little bird drunk enough to pass out and he’ll sleep the rest of it off. 

He’s just pulled out a few dusty, mismatched glasses and a half-empty handle of tequila when he hears the shower turn off. Wet footsteps follow before he can finish rinsing the grime out and pouring a couple fingers of the amber liquor in each. 

“Jay,” Tim says, voice cracked and unsteady. A damp hand closes on his bicep again, clinging. “I… here.” He shoves something at him on the counter and is suddenly gone. Jason looks just in time to see him hunched over, wearing nothing but a towel, limping to collapse on the couch.

Jason looks away and focuses on whatever Tim set down. He blanches when he reads it, feeling the green toxic rage boil deep in his bones again  – _fuck_  her, damn every molecule in her shitty pro-rape body to  _Hell._

He picks up the glasses of tequila and stomps over to the couch. It might not be able to help much, but there’s no way he wants to handle this sober, and it couldn’t hurt Tim to be a little less aware of everything. 

Tim’s abandoned the towel on the floor. His cock looks  – swollen, there’s really no other word to describe it, dark and painful like a deep-tissue bruise. Jason thinks about every Viagra commercial he’s ever seen and wonders what kind of horrific shit happens from a four-hour boner. He flicks his gaze to Tim’s face and falters a little in his step. 

He looks feverish, glassy-eyed and bright red, panting with the tip of his tongue just barely on display. He’s not even touching himself, he’s just lying there like he’s half-dead, wrists pillowed on his wet hair spreading out over the couch arm above his head. The soles of his feet are pressed together, knees extended out like frog legs. He’s small enough that he’s able to lie that way even on the couch, one knee pressed at an angle to the back of the couch.

“Hey,” Jason says low, like he’s talking to a wild animal, “You okay?” He abandons the tequila on the ground and shuffles forward, crouching as he reaches Tim’s side. Tim’s forehead burns the back of his hand, and he wishes he had some kind of thermometer, at least to check if the temp is high enough to be frying his brain. Tim whimpers at the contact and rubs his face into it, eyes sliding mostly shut. His body shimmies, hips raising uselessly in the air. Beads of sweat are pricking all over his skin already, tracking shiny lines over his face, neck, chest. 

“I should call Batman,” Jason says, pulling away. Tim meets his gaze and whines; his pupils are blown so big his eyes look like sapphires, deep sharp inky blue. With a shaking hand, Jason pets through Tim’s wet hair and memorizes the way his eyes slide shut with a relieved exhale. 

“S’not… new one. No fix,” he manages, even while rubbing against Jason’s hand like a cat, shivering and sweating. One of his hands finds Jason’s wrist and holds onto it tightly, keeping him close. “ _Please_ , Jay, need it – _please_.”   

Jason’s fingers are gentle, stroking small lines onto Tim’s scalp to make up for his croaked, “Can’t. You’re not in your right mind, it’d be  – ” He doesn’t finish his sentence, doesn’t put that word out into the air between them. Not when he’s almost positive he’s going to be broken down into complying eventually by those flint ocean eyes and throaty begging.

“ _Please_  fuck me,” Tim rasps, dragging Jason’s hand away from his scalp and to his lips. He mouths imprecisely at the palm, shivering between nips and sloppy kisses.

“Don’t have condoms,” Jason whispers, voice faint even to his own ears, pulse roaring over it.

Tim growls against his hand and bucks upward again, frustration catching in his throat. “Do you think I _care_?” 

“I care,” Jason starts, “I used to  – I was a hooker  – ” He’s cut off by Tim pulling him down into a kiss, hard and dirty, and he can’t help his wandering hands, fingers slipping in the sweat pooled in Tim’s clavicle.

When he’s finally able to pull back, Tim’s eyes are full of fire and Jason can’t find his breath.

“I want you,” Tim says with a fierce confidence, and Jason can almost, almost pretend it isn’t the pollen talking. He stands, hands shaking as he unbuckles his belt and lets his pants fall. He’s already shamefully half-hard. 

Tim wastes no time, hauling himself up to grope at Jason’s hips and pull him close enough to nose into his crotch, panting against the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs, and now he can’t even pretend he’s not interested and he has to clutch Tim’s shoulders at the sudden blood rush downward.

When the dizzy spell lets up, Jason shoves Tim away. “That’s not going to help anything,” he snaps, holding onto his anger instead of the confusion, guilt, insecurity. “I’m not the one with drugs in my system.” He glares at Tim’s whine of annoyance. His shirt is yanked over his head and tossed at the floor in one motion. Just as quickly, he grabs Tim by the hips and manhandles him into a sitting position, sinking heavily to his knees and putting his mouth on Tim before he can chicken out. 

Tim’s knees squeeze around his head, boxing his ears. The moan the boy lets out rattles his frame so hard Jason can feel it, too. He takes a deep breath through his mouth and then sinks down until his nose brushes soft curls of hair, his chin pressing against the silky skin of Tim’s sack. It’s been a long time since he’s done this, years and years, but it’s a lot like riding a bike -- once you know how, you never lose the ability to deep throat. He relaxes his esophagus and lets Tim control it, relishing in the tugs of pain as Tim’s fingers twist and yank in his hair for leverage. 

It doesn’t take long, maybe five or six thrusts, before Tim is coming down his throat. He swallows around the pulsing head but pulls back before Tim’s done spurting so he can see what he tastes like. He wants to remember every detail of this for when he’s hating himself for it later. 

Tim’s still hard when he pulls away, but he looks a little more present in the way he’s gazing down at Jason. He’s beautiful, Jason realizes with a lurch. He’s beautiful, and Jason is a monster for taking advantage of this, for accepting this heated gaze like he _deserves_  it. 

“T’hurts,” Tim murmurs down at him. Jason kisses his knee in apology and immediately feels odd for it. 

“There’s a mattress,” he says finally, mouth resting against the curve of Tim’s patella, “n’the other room.”

“Carry me?”

Jason has nearly a foot on him and must weigh a hundred pounds more. Tim is light as a feather, hollow-boned like the bird he stole from Jason. Slender legs wrap around his waist as he lifts, arms around his neck, the bare curve of the ass in his hands slick with sweat. His erection is trapped between them, the thin cotton of his underwear the only thing separating them. He breathes raggedly as Tim peppers kisses along his jugular.

How could he hate this boy? He knows that the crackle of viridian animosity will seize control of him again after all of this is over, but right now, he can muster nothing but a dumbfounded awe at how receptive, how affectionate Tim is being, and a deep cavernous guilt at being exactly the sort of person Ivy thought he was.

Despite the impulse to drop Tim like he’s a red-hot brand, Jason crouches and sets him onto the mattress with a care he didn’t know he possessed. He smooths back damp curls of the boy’s bangs in silent apology as he pulls away, doing his best to ignore the way Tim’s whine tilts up at the end in desperation. Almost fear.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he mumbles, and staggers off to the bathroom to throw up.

 

✧･:* ❀ *:･✧

 

The blankets beneath Tim are rough, thick wool meant for insulation and not comfort. The sensation against his sensitive skin is just enough to keep him occupied, focused on the scratch as he wriggles. He misses the strong heat of Jason’s presence, how he lifted him like he weighed _nothing_. He could be manhandled into doing anything and he’d be powerless to stop it. The thought sends a delicious shiver through him and he savors it, feeling drunk, feeling fragile and vulnerable in a way he hasn’t in a long time. Set out like a platter of treats waiting to be consumed, and oh, how he wants to be consumed, to be _owned_. The air around him is too empty, he needs to be crushed beneath a heavy body, to be so thoroughly fucked he loses awareness of everything else. Gravity, physics, his very identity, all shoved out of the way for that moment of ego-free bliss.

He keens into the empty room, hands roving his chest and stomach in his impatience. He still doesn’t grab hold of his erection, wants to come with Jason buried deep inside him, with teeth in his neck and his legs slung over those wide, beefy shoulders. He’s shivering again, losing focus fast. He’s vaguely aware of his hips bucking feebly upward, the pantomime of what he wants better than lying still and impatient.

He has no idea how long it takes before Jason returns, but the moment the man enters the room Tim is arching his back and moaning, “Fuck me,” half command, half plea. Jason, gloriously nude and _hung_  and holding a bottle of lotion, staggers to a stop. “God, no, come _here_ ,” Tim sobs, finally, finally reaching between his legs, past his already-tight balls, to plunge a finger into himself. He just manages the tip, can’t get much more in without any kind of lubrication outside of his sweat, but it’s enough to draw Jason back to him, which is all he ever wanted in the first place.

“Hey, no, I’m not… I’m not gonna do that, here, just… be patient?” Jason’s voice falters, hands touching Tim’s thighs and stomach light and fleeting as butterflies. Tim bites his lip, massaging his fingertip against his hole as he waits. He’ll be good, _so_ good. Jason will _have_  to fuck him as hard as he needs it. 

What he doesn’t expect is Jason to coat his fingers with lotion and go for his OWN ass, carefully prodding like he’s performing a delicate operation. Tim’s heart feels too close to the surface, his ribs a xylophone for the percussive beat. Jason’s tongue sticks out of his mouth in concentration, just a smidge. Warmth pools down Tim’s spine and settles in his belly.

It doesn’t take long before Jason is thrusting three fingers into himself, twisting his wrist for a better stretch; it’s obvious this is not his first time doing it. Tim watches in amazement at the practiced motions, the muscle memory playing out in pornographic display just for him.

Despite the buildup, Tim still jolts when Jason straddles him carefully, hands against his shoulders with no weight behind them. “Is this okay?” he asks, a small voice that doesn’t fit his big frame. Tim nods, unable to speak, and Jason grasps him gently with one hand and guides him toward his stretched hole.

All coherent thought flits to the furthest reaches of Tim’s mind as the man sits, slowly sheathing Tim’s cock inside his body without pause. Jason clenches around him, breathing steady harsh breaths through his nose. He’s almost unbearably tight. Tears spring to Tim’s eyes and he holds onto Jason’s hips to keep himself grounded in this moment.

“Shhh, I got you,” Jason rasps, palm splayed on his sternum, tilted toward his heart. He hadn’t realized it until Jason’s hand is pressing on his lungs that he’d been whining, low and throaty, more a noise of pain than anything else. 

Tim’s pulse is going haywire, thrumming through his bones like a thoroughbred’s beating hooves against fresh earth. He feels the same primal urge to move, to both pull away from this vice around him squeezing him to the point of agony, but also to push deeper. He’s not nearly deep enough even with Jason’s ass squarely against his pubic bone. He ends up writhing beneath Jason, trying his hardest to get some kind of friction or relief. 

“Shhhh,” Jason says again, lifting a few inches off of him and leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his mouth. He rolls his hips backward, pushing Tim back inside him. Tim whines against his lips. “It’s okay, baby bird. I got you.”

The rhythm Jason starts is slow and torturous. Tim continues to buck beneath him, breathing heavy and vocal, but Jason doesn’t let it affect his sensual rise and fall. Somewhere deep in Tim’s mind, behind all the desperate feral need, he wonders how many times Jason’s done this before. He’s not just making it feel good, he’s putting on a show, rolling his hips and letting the motion follow up to his spine. His eyes pin Tim to the bed just as effectively as the single hand on his chest. Jason’s other hand is in his hair, fingers clenching and unclenching around the streak of white. He keeps eye contact, a seering gaze that goes right through Tim, the man’s pupils blown so wide they look more green than blue. 

Tim forgets how to breathe. The hand in Jason’s hair withdraws and moves down to card into Tim’s sweaty bangs, thumb ghosting over his eyebrow. “I wonder if you’ll remember this,” Jason murmurs as he continues his maddeningly-slow ride. “Probably better if you don’t.” He leans in and kisses Tim again, the barest press of lips. Tim growls at him and bites at his mouth before he pulls away.

“M’not gonna forget,” he snarls, hands back on Jason’s hips so he can force the man to go faster, to let him push in harder, deeper. “Jay, _please_. Stop teasing.”

Jason quirks a half-smile down at him and says, “As you wish, princess,” and then he’s riding hard, slamming down on him with his eyes shut and his eyebrows furrowed. He chews his bottom lip between his teeth, swallowing moans before they can escape his throat. Tim watches him the best as he can, enraptured and struggling to keep his eyes open. 

Every nerve ending in his lower body feels like it’s on fire, building to engulf everything in an inferno. Tim digs his thumbs into Jason and holds on, panting out wordless pleas as the flames rise, billowing out and up to lick at his spine, the base of his neck. “Jay,” he breathes past the smoke swirling in his head, in his lungs. Jason leans down and captures his mouth, slowing for a moment for it as if unable to multitask. Tim’s skin crackles and sparks and he slides his hands up Jason’s sides to the back of his neck, burying his fingers in the black curls at the base. Tim nips at Jason’s mouth until it opens. Their tongues slide together and Tim can’t stop the satisfied rumble in his chest or the slow roll of his hips upward. Jason keens, small and vulnerable. Tim thrusts a little harder, hands sliding back down to his hips.

“Timothy,” Jason whispers like a benediction, breath hot against his neck. Tim holds Jason’s hips down so he can fuck upward as hard and fast as he can, chasing the curl of flame higher until it overwhelms him and he bites the meat of Jason’s shoulder, everything whiting out as he comes buried deep inside the other man.

As he finds himself settled again in his body, the haze of sex and pollen drifting away from where it had clung against his temples, Tim becomes aware of two things: one, that Jason Peter Todd, second Robin and current Red Hood, known murderer and asshole, is still sitting impaled on his cock. Two, Jason’s hard, but stone-still, breathing 4-7-8 with his eyes closed. His eyelashes are fluttering against his cheeks.

Tim reaches out and brushes his fingers against Jason’s abs, stroking the hair just to the right of his jutting erection. Jason’s stomach trembles but doesn’t respond otherwise, breathing pattern uninterrupted. Without the pollen giving him singular focus, he’s not sure what to do, exactly. Why isn’t he _moving?_  It can’t be out of a sense of kindness for Tim’s recently-spent self. Jason doesn’t care about him, and he’s so hard he’s leaking. How he’s keeping his calm is anyone’s guess.

“Jason?” he says, and realizes he doesn’t know what else to say. He’s lying on a scratchy blanket on a mattress on the floor of a cruddy downtown apartment, balls-deep in someone he thought hated his guts. The other man is kind of heavy, actually. Tim can’t really feel his thighs anymore. He squirms a little and Jason continues impersonating a statue, and that’s it. Tim can’t handle this. He starts laughing.

Jason cracks an eye open, raising one eyebrow and staring down at him like Tim is misbehaving in synagogue and not lying there with his dick up a butt. He laughs even harder, the air pulling out of his lungs squeaky and silent. 

“What the fuck are you laughing about,” Jason grouses in a tight voice. 

“What are we _doing?_ ” Tim cries between gasps. “What are _you_  doing?”

Jason’s fingers, still on Tim’s sternum, curl a little, uncertain. “If you’re lucid now, I can leave.” Tim shakes his head, grabs Jason’s wrist and drags the hand to his face so he can nuzzle at it, laughter winding down into a giggle. 

“You haven’t come,” Tim says against the callused palm. 

Jason plucks his hand away from Tim’s lips and shakes his head. “I was just helping you out. If it’s worked out of you, I’m leaving.” His voice is pinched, labored. He’s not making eye contact, shifting his knees so he can lift himself up. He gets about two inches up before Tim is coordinated enough to grab his hips and push him back down roughly. His eyes screw shut and he cranes his face toward the ceiling, muscles cording as he swallows a whimper. The rings of muscle around Tim squeeze painfully tight around him.

“Oh,” Tim breathes. Getting hard for the third time in an hour is probably not good for him, and it hurts as his body tries, but the good kind of hurt, like the ache after a rigorous patrol. “I wanna…” He swallows, wets his lips, tries again. “I want you to come.”

Jason peeks at him again, less an irate Jewish grandmother and more a cautiously optimistic stray dog waiting to see if the offering of food is legitimate. Tim pets the man’s thighs awkwardly and wishes he wasn’t so new at this. The men in porn always seem to have a confidence in themselves that Tim can’t even begin to grasp at now. “But, umm, maybe we switch positions?” He tries to hold eye contact with Jason’s single open eye and it’s nearly impossible. He closes his eyes and breathes deep instead, centering himself. “My legs are asleep.”

“Well let go’a me and I can get off your damn legs,” Jason says without fire. Tim pulls his hands away and doesn’t know where to put them; they land on either side of his face against the pillow and he feels particularly vulnerable as Jason lifts slow until Tim isn’t inside him anymore. Cum dribbles out of the loose hole and down his thick, muscular thigh. Tim watches with rapt attention, wishing he wasn’t too chickenshit to lap it up. 

Jason apparently notices, because a dry raspy laugh curls out of him and he says softly, “See something you like?” 

There’s something genuine and connected about this moment between them, an emotional intimacy that should take years of camaraderie to achieve and not merely hours of drugged sex. Tim briefly wonders if this is all some kind of crazy hallucination, courtesy of the pollen. “Don’t you hate me?” he asks, no idea how he’s supposed to tell if this is real life.

“Yeah.” The smile accompanying his answer is crooked, affectionate, a little bit cocky. Tim might be in love, he might have been in love this whole time and purposefully ignored it to avoid the heartache of his Robin not feeling the same way. “Hey,” Jason says, the smile dropping off his face to be replaced with furrowed brows and a gentle hand against Tim’s jawline, “What’s up?”

Tim realizes, belatedly, that he’s crying. “Sorry,” he says for unfathomable reasons. A blunt thumb wipes away a tear with surprising tenderness. “I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

“Shh.” Lips follow his thumb, tiny kisses peppered over Tim’s cheeks. “Prob’ly your hormones are confused. It’s okay, baby bird, I’m here.”

Tim can’t breathe. He covers Jason’s hand, still on his jaw, with his own, fighting to get his lungs to accept the warm air swirling between them. Jason’s pressed to his side, erection a hot slick line against Tim’s thigh, but he stays still in a frankly insane display of self-control. Tim is wildly uncertain, but aches with want, so different from the animalistic need driving him before. This one squeezes his heart like a ripe fruit, its juices staining his insides with sticky confusion.

“Will you…,” he starts, peering up at Jason between slitted eyes, like the man won’t be able to see into him if less of his irises are visible, “if it’s okay…”

Jason strokes Tim’s sweaty bangs out of his face patiently and says nothing, waiting for the end to the question.

He squeezes his eyes shut again and lets it out before he can psyche himself out of it. “I want you inside me.”

 

✧･:* ❀ *:･✧

 

Jason is not a good person. He has done nothing to deserve this kind of devoted submission, least of all from someone he essentially just raped. The boy beside him - a boy, not a man, barely legal by New Jersey standards and certainly not by federal - gazes up at him with lidded blue eyes, cheeks still shining with tears, timid but not afraid. 

“No,” he murmurs, hoping that will be enough for the kid. Predictably, it’s not.

“Please,” Tim breathes, tilting his head toward Jason’s palm again like a kitten seeking out affection. “I want it.” He peeks at Jason through fingers, smiling shyly with a tiny quirk of his lips.

“I’ll remind you, since you were high as fuck earlier, I don’t have any condoms.” He doesn’t really have sex anymore. He’s too busy, doesn’t trust anyone enough to bring them back to his safehouses, doesn’t really associate the act with anything positive. He has very little sexual experience that wasn’t for cash or coerced. 

Tim seems to struggle with that, eyebrows pulling together in the kind of focused deliberation only a Bat could wield. They smooth out after a moment, but Tim hides his face in Jason’s palm again, voice hardly above a whisper, “I don’t mind if you get me a little messy.”

_ Fuck. _

“Have you even done this before?” Something about the coyness with which Tim isn’t quite looking at him makes his inexperience so obvious. 

“Um, no.” Tim isn’t even attempting to look at him anymore. His face is pressing into Jason’s hand like if he tries hard enough it’ll swallow him whole.

“...Had you ever had sex before?” Jason dreads the answer, but he has to know.

“Can I plead the fifth on that?” It’s a mutter, a little defensive, a little desperate.

He’s going to vomit again. “Are you saying I took your virginity while you were flying like a kite?”

“It's a possibility.”

Time stands still a moment before Jason manages to scramble his way to his feet, edging toward the door like a skittish buck. He needs to go lock himself in the bathroom again and dry-heave until the bile burns his throat. Tim makes a confused, hurt kind of noise and reaches a hand out toward him. “Where are you going?” And goddamn, the kid’s already at a point where Jason leaving feels like a betrayal, the emotional need bleeding out of his voice like that. 

“I never should’ve brought you here,” Jason coughs, feeling unsteady, the tendons in his legs taut like the rope at a gallows. 

“Jay  – ” 

He doesn’t linger, doesn’t give himself a chance to memorize the broken, defenseless look on Tim’s face. He doesn’t even close the bathroom door as he slams to his knees in front of the toilet and retches with a violence that hurts, wringing out his stomach uselessly.

He nearly leaps out of his skin when a small hand presses between his shoulder blades. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls, but the hand remains, rubbing tiny circles on his trapezius. 

“Jason, it’s okay,” Tim murmurs, comforting him, his fucking victim is comforting HIM. Jason retches into the toilet again, abdominal muscles squeezing hard, as if turning carbon guilt into sharp-edged diamond consequence. He spits out the small amount of yellow bile his body managed to force out of him, shuddering through his whole body at the bitter tang that clings to his mouth. Tim continues as if he wasn’t interrupted, as if Jason isn’t trying to hork up his organs. “I liked it. I liked it a _lot._ ”

“You weren’t _right_ , and I took advantage, don’t you fucking tell me it was okay.”

The laugh chuffs out of Tim, breath puffing against his bicep. Tim’s cheek follows as he settles beside Jason on the bathroom floor and leans in. “We dress up in dorky costumes to fight crime. Are any of us  _ever_  ‘right’?” The little shit even does the ironic quotation marks, one hand still on his back, so he feels it like little claws. “It was sweet. Not how I usually imagine it happening.”

Jason clutches the edges of the toilet bowl. Maybe the porcelain will keep him steady, root him back to earth and stop the spinning in his head. “How’s that?” he croaks.

 “How I imagine you whisking me away and having your dirty way with me?” Tim’s face is pressed to his arm, still so shy despite the filth Jason _knows_  is about to come out of his pouty, boyish mouth. Jason can’t muster an answer outside of a shaky deep breath, but it doesn’t matter. Tim’s lips move against his skin anyway, murmuring so softly Jason feels like he has to read the shapes of his words through touch alone. “You’re never gentle. You snatch me up from a rooftop and sling me over your shoulder like I weigh nothing at all.” 

Jason wonders if he knows he’s stroking down his back, playing with feather-soft fingertips over a knotted bullet scar just to the right of his spine. “I fight back, of course, but you’re stronger. You’re so much stronger.” His breath hitches, his mouth opening against muscle in a farce of a kiss. Jason isn’t breathing at all, the air trapped in his lungs like molten glass, scalding hot.

“Can we,” Tim starts, wetting his lips without moving away, and the slick of his saliva shouldn’t be so sexy, “can we go back to the bed? It’s not very comfortable here.”

“Didn’t sound to me like your fantasy was all that _comfy_ , Replacement,” Jason says despite himself, but he eases his death-grip off of the bowl. 

Tim pulls back, indignant. “I want _you_  to wreck my ass, not cold bathroom tile.” He freezes with a small squeak, flushing a brilliant robin-breast red, as if his own words were too salacious for him to hear. 

“This a new thing, or..?” Jason’s pretty sure he tried to kill the kid just last week. It’s a little hard to track time, though. Everything runs together in a blur, spikes of viscous green rage interrupting the languid spill of corruption and human filth that keeps on coming like some kind of conveyer belt at a fucked up factory of atrocities. 

Tim shakes his head, offers Jason a hand as he stands. Jason doesn’t take it; he doesn’t need any help rising to his feet, and he’s not sure he should be touching the boy right now. He needs to get his head on straight again, get the little punk in some clothes and on his way. “No,” Tim huffs, following Jason out of the bathroom so close he stumbles over Jason’s heels, “it’s been pretty much as long as I’ve known you exist.”

“So, right around when I introduced myself with a knife at your throat, right. You sure do have logical and healthy reactions to trauma, kid.”

“God, Jason, don’t be such an ass, it was _way_  earlier than that. Right around when you became Robin." 

He pauses and the boy slams into his back, but instead of recoiling he wraps his arms around Jason’s waist and holds on. “Weren’t you like, _ten?_ ”

“Okay,” Tim says to his spine, “so I wasn’t having sexually explicit thoughts _immediately_ , but I definitely already had a crush.”

“At ten.” This whole conversation is surreal. Jason stares down at Tim’s hands where they are wrapped around his torso.

“I was a precocious kid, okay? I already knew I was queer by kindergarten.” Maybe if Jason wiggles a few fingers under Tim’s arm when he’s distracted, he’ll let go without noticing. 

“How’d you work that one out?” Jason asks, only half-listening as he tries to loosen Tim’s hold on him. The kid is held fast, fingernails curling to bite into his hips.

“Uh, watching Robin Hood, mostly.” Tim’s forehead presses tighter to Jason’s back and he suppresses a shiver, focusing instead on the words. 

“What, the Disney movie?” He’d seen that one a few times in his childhood; Lena, the prostitute that lived next door, used to get him bootlegs of stuff whenever she could. Robin Hood as a character was a little too painful for him to handle; the dream of stealing from the rich and helping the poor was an obvious fantasy in his world, one that left him with a bitter taste in his mouth even as an eight-year-old.   
  
“That’s the one.”    
  
“You’re aware he’s a _fox._ ”   
  
“Yes. That’s not the point,” Tim says with a defensive tone that outmatches the statement.

Jason snorts and cajoles, “You’re not one of those weird fuckers that gets off on animal people, are you?”  
  
“Can we _please_ get back to my crush on you?” Finally, Tim lets go, stalking toward the mattress without looking at him, and there’s really only one thing that could mean.  
  
“Oh my god, you _are_ ,” Jason chortles. He’s definitely saving this for future blackmail material, or to whip out on Batman in a verbal spar to throw him off guard so he can maybe land a punch in the bastard’s face.

Tim whirls on him and pokes a finger into his chest. “ _Jason!_  We are talking about my enormous and storied infatuation with your dumb face right now!”

Jason smirks, advancing until Tim’s ankles hit the mattress and he stumbles and falls. “Sorry, babe,” he says. “I don’t have a tail. I know that would be ideal.”

“Screw you,” Tim says into the pillow, rolling over to hide himself. 

“Been there, done that,” Jason snarks, suddenly super aware again of how naked they both are. He shuffles over to the cardboard box that functions as his dresser and digs out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt so he doesn’t feel so exposed. “What’s your size, extra-extra-small?” 

“What?” Somehow, Tim’s already gotten his hair all tousled. Jason’s heart squeezes; how the fuck could one person be so goddamn precious? How is this the same kid that’s out kicking criminal ass every night? Instead of answering, he holds up a shirt and raises an eyebrow. Tim flushes and ducks down into his shoulders. “Uh, just small.”   
  
“Too bad,” Jason says a little roughly, tossing a random shirt in Tim’s direction, “All’s I got are larges.”

Tim doesn’t put it on. Instead, he unfolds it and stares at the graphic. It was in a roll, so Jason’s not sure what shirt it even is; it’s a black cotton tee like pretty much every shirt he owns. What shirts does he even have stored here? Fuck. 

“Why,” Tim says finally, turning the shirt around to face Jason, “do you have a Sailor Moon shirt?”

“Are you seriously going to judge me over having a Sailor Moon shirt?” Jason says. “Give it back, you’re not pure enough to wear it if you’re gonna make fun of her.”

“No, no!” Tim says, scrambling to put it on. “I was just surprised. It’s unexpected.”

“Fighting evil by moonlight? Winning love by daylight? Never running from a real fight? She and I are real similar. I bet I’d rock the red sailor uniform.” 

Tim grins. The shirt is so big it covers his lap. “Sounds like you should switch careers. You clearly need to be a magical girl, no more of this drug lord business.”

“Far as I remember,” Jason scoffs, “you don’t get paid much for saving the world, but you sure as shit get paid protection money.” Somehow, Tim wearing just the shirt feels more scandalous than leaving him naked. The shirt dwarfs him, makes his age so much more obvious. He has a little smile on his face, part wry, part fond. Jason wants to kiss it off of him. 

He hates how much this evening has gotten away from him. 

“I don’t think there are any mahou shoujo anime where the girls get paid for their work, but I could research it,” Tim says. “Or we could binge a bounty hunter anime. Do you like Cowboy Bebop?”

“I… what now?” Jason blinks down at Tim, who has gotten comfortable in the covers again. “I only understood like half of that. What the fuck is a Cowboy Beep-bop? Better not be some furry bullshit you’re trying to foist on me.”

Tim gapes at him. “What the heck, how can you not know Cowboy Bebop?” He sits back up, pointing an accusatory finger at Jason. “You don’t get a choice now. We’re going to hole up this weekend and watch the entire first season.”   
  
Jason crosses his arms defensively. “What if I don’t wanna?”

Tim’s finger wilts and his expression gets sad, delving into puppy-dog territory Jason was sure only Dick had mastered. “But it’s really good. You’d love it, I promise.”

Jason hates, hates, _hates_  being manipulated emotionally. He’d trained himself into reacting to Dick’s begging face with anger, but this is different, the plaintive gaze from Tim looks genuine. There’s something tentative resting between them, some kind of truce. Tim offering him forgiveness for his attempts on his life as long as Jason forgives him for taking his place when he was gone.

He doesn’t like it. Robin should have died with him. But his beef is with Bruce, not this strangely captivating boy with too little self-preservation who’s made a nest in his bed. Who, despite everything, is offering a hand out in friendship. Companionship? Jason successfully derailed Tim from telling him all the dirty thoughts he starred in, but the knowledge that he’s apparently number one in the boy’s spank bank still whispers at him from the corners of his mind. It’s terrifying, having that kind of power. Tim implied he’d let him do anything to him, and Jason isn’t sure he should ever be given that kind of trust. He hasn’t earned it, and he sure as hell hasn’t done much to give Tim any modicum of confidence that he wouldn’t crush it given the chance.

Blue eyes continue to gaze at him with less-than-patient anticipation. Blue like a robin’s egg, or maybe clear skies; they’re not icy flint like Bruce’s or mediterranean lagoon like Dick’s. They’re flight and birds, innocent, earnest. 

“I guess,” Jason finally allows, “but you need to go home now.” He needs space to think, to process this change. Right now he’s a caged tiger, suffocating in this forced sharing of his territory. Sluggishly aware of how easily this boy in front of him could be turned to prey, how SIMPLE it would be to take a knife to his throat now. But there’s a twinge of anxiety at that idea now. He won’t be able to raise a hand against this baby bird ever again. Fuck Bruce for taking him in, for picking someone who so easily got under his skin. He wonders if it’s deliberate, if Bruce somehow had planned far enough ahead to consider this possibility.  

“I don’t have pants,” Tim points out. “My costume is ruined at the moment.” He says it with such a flat tone, a logical tone, but his cheeks still burn pink. 

“Then I’ll lend you a pair,” Jason promises, itching with emotional claustrophobia. “You’re not staying here.”

Tim rolls his eyes and off the bed. “I’ll need a bag or something to carry my Robin stuff.” 

“Yeah,” Jason says, already digging in his box-drawer for some pants that might fit Tim. He pulls out one with drawstrings and hopes they’ll tie tight enough. He shoves them at the boy and doesn’t spare him a second look, stalking out to the entryway storage closet to grab a paper Target bag from his stash.

When he gets back to the bedroom he’s relieved to find Tim in the pajama pants, pixie boots on and tucked underneath to be less conspicuous. Tim raises an eye at the Target bag but goes into the bathroom, and Jason can hear how carelessly he’s shoving everything into it. Alfred must go crazy over this kid’s messiness.

Tim comes back out of the bathroom a moment later, holding a fancy-looking cell phone in one hand and the target bag in the other. “Gimme your number so I can text you later.”

“Are you gonna give it to B?” Jason hedges.

Tim gives him a look that’s all bitchy teenager. “What do _you_ think?”

“Well, don’t.” Jason picks at a cuticle and rattles off the number, one for a burner phone because like hell is he giving Tim primary contact information, but it still makes him feel equal parts anxious and fluttery. “Do you need a ride or something?”

“Nah,” Tim says with a little smile, “I called an Uber.” 

“No clue what that is,” Jason says, feeling stupidly like an old man. He’s only nineteen or thereabouts; he shouldn’t feel this _old_ yet.

Tim laughs and the sound curls deep in Jason’s chest and settles there. “I’ll have to explain the twenty-first century to you sometime,” he says with a wink. Jason is frozen as he walks toward him and stands on his tip-toes to plant a sloppy kiss on him.  

Just as quickly, he’s opened the window and is crouching on the sill, offering a jaunty salute before he flips out of the building with a cheerful, “See you Saturday!” 

Jason refuses to look out the window, refuses to watch his replacement waltz out of his neighborhood. He curls up on the bed and refuses to acknowledge the smell of sex clinging to the blankets, refuses to think about how pretty the boy looked laid out for him on the mattress.

The one thing he doesn’t feel guilty focusing on: he’s still going to kick Ivy’s ass for this. Just as soon as he figures out how much of a favor he’s gonna owe her, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Some headcanons present:  
> 1\. Tim is Jewish on his Mom’s side. There’s some fandom theories on this given the vandalizing of Janet’s grave with swastikas at one point, and variety is the spice of life so Tim is Jewish in my little version of the DCU, at least culturally.  
> 2\. I am not really sure where it came from, but my girlfriend and I joke that Tim is a furry. I’m sure there was some logical progression to this decision but it’s lost to the sands of time (and shit memory - thanks fibromyalgia!). At least one of the Batfam needs to be a furry, and Tim's the one who definitely had a sexual attachment to Batman and Robin, so it only makes sense it would be him. Also true story, every one of my furry friends had their gay furry awakening via Disney’s Robin Hood. He’s one sexy fox, I guess!  
> 3\. Introduction via knife to the throat is probably referring to Hush, which I know isn’t actually Jason (in some continuities??? Who knows, comics), but holding Tim captive with a knife to his throat is SUCH a sexier post-death meet cute compared to the actual first encounter, which I think is when Jason was a weirdo and had the Robin suit on under his Red Hood suit and ranted at Tim for a good twenty minutes about him replacing him before fighting him dramatically? Idk, knifeplay is hot, dramatic speeches full of ugly bitchy jealousy, not so much.  
> 4\. The Batfandom puts Jason into a rapist role way more than makes any sense?? It’s pretty well-established canon that Jason hates rapists and abusers. He’d rather kill himself than stoop that low. This fic is basically taking the way Jay/Tim pollen fics usually go and flipping that on its head, with more PTSD-angst and constipated teenage bat emotions for everyone.


End file.
